


Sketched in Dust

by Liara_90



Category: RWBY
Genre: Drabble Collection, Multi, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 20:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16980900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: Disconnected drabbles & unfinished fragments, archived for posterity.Please see the chapter index for specifics.





	1. Yang & Ruby / Dungeons & Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was originally sketched as part of my brainstorming for _[Alea Iacta Est](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7118371)_.

* * *

Yang strolled leisurely into the kitchen, her feet slapping noisily against the linoleum flooring. Dad was out of town on a business trip, which meant the popcorn was hers for the microwaving. She pulled a bag out of the cupboard and tossed it into the microwave, tapping the five button twice. As badly as she yearned for the popcorn to _pop_ faster, Ruby’s attempts to manually increase the machine’s wattage had only left them all wearing Geiger counters for a week.

Speaking of Ruby… Yang perched herself on the kitchen counter to watch her sis, currently seated at the kitchen table with a massive text and a small pool of graph paper before her. A bright right pen - technically a Karas Kustoms “Bolt” that cost more than Yang spent on school supplies in a year - spun idly between her fingers, her thumb tapping the bolt-action mechanism every few seconds.

Yang craned her neck. The page Ruby was slaving over was filled with eye-squintingly small text that didn’t seem to form proper sentences. Yang shrugged, inwardly. Probably another mechanical engineering textbook Ruby had borrowed from the library downtown.

The microwave beeped twice, and Yang hopped off the counter, her battle-worn fingers indifferent to the searing heat of the bag. “School night, so in bed by eleven, Rubes,” reminded Yang.

Ruby grunted, as she normally did when too engrossed in her own world to bother with such inconveniences as pleasantries. She _clicked_ her pen, and scrawled a furious note on the piece of paper, _clicking_ it a moment later. Her other hand drifted to a TI-83 calculator by her side, dexterous fingers punching in a calculation like a virtuoso pianist.

Yang normally wouldn’t have passed up the opportunity to tease her sister; with Dad in Texas, Ruby _should_ have been binging on the Gamecube downstairs. Whatever was engrossing her at to be some pretty Prime Grade geek material. But _Buffy_ was on and the commercial break would be almost over, so Yang had to be elsewhere pronto. That Incan mummy curse wasn’t going to dispel itself, after all.

* * *

Yang returned several hours later, in search of midnight sustenance. She barely stifled a shout as she saw Ruby, still hunched over the table, asleep in a position that would leave her neck horrendously sore tomorrow. Her Bolt pen still rested between the thumb and index finger of her left hand, while a shallow puddle of drool was slowly pooling on the glossy sheets beneath her face.

“Oh, Ruby,” Yang murmured, squatting down so she could slide her sister into her arms. Ruby slept like the dead and barely stirred as Yang gently adjusted her weight.

Before trekking back upstairs, Yang cast a fleeting glance at the open pages her sister had fallen asleep atop.

There was a dragon on it, majestic and terrifying.

Yang _hmm’d_. Dragons were cool. Perhaps there was hope for sis yet.


	2. Yang & Taiyang / The Cemetery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you figure out what this was supposed to go with ;)

* * *

“Something smells nice,” said Weiss, strolling into the living room, her arms half-filled with binders from work. She took in the flowers on the table a moment later, a curious expression on her face. “What’s the occasion?”

She figured it out a second after she asked, but not in time to stop the moment of awkwardness.

“I… I think it’s time,” I said.

Weiss, thankfully, didn’t need to ask anything else. She just stared at the flowers on the table. “Do you want me to talk to Ruby?”

I looked down at the floor, fidgeting with my hands. I hated the idea of needing a go-between, especially for something like _this_ , but after our late-night run-in I didn’t really trust myself to say the right things.

“Yeah,” was all I said back.

Weiss planted a small hand on my shoulder, squeezing it firmly, before walking over to Ruby’s door. I kept my head down as Weiss knocked twice, didn’t glance over when the door swung open and shut. The music Ruby had taken to blasting when she knew I was around suddenly died.

I haven’t the faintest idea what Weiss said to Ruby. I spent the time concentrating on the pit in my stomach. But the door eventually swung open, and Ruby and Weiss emerged together.

“Are you good to go?” I asked.

“Yeah.” Ruby glanced at the table. “Are those-”

“Those ones are for you, yup.”

“...Thanks.”

Weiss offered to drive us, probably to make sure we actually made it to the cemetery without killing each other. Because that would’ve been ironic, or something. Ruby and I agreed wordlessly to Weiss playing babysitter, piling into a white SUV in the condo’s underground parking garage.

Ruby sat up front, and I took the seat behind Weiss, giving me an excuse to steal glances at Ruby. A few minutes into the drive she slipped in her earbuds, her attention focused on her window. I wondered what she was thinking.

Cliffside Cemetery was located on the outskirts of Vale, near the famous bluffs all the tourists stops to take pictures at. It was a long-ish drive, and Weiss made a few attempts to strike up a conversation, but it wasn’t like there were a lot of safe topics between us three. School, work and family were all no-gos. None of us followed sports. Hell, I don’t think there was one proper hobby between the three of us.

We spent the forty-minute drive in silence.

The parking lot was mostly empty when we finally arrived. Weiss made some excuse about paying respects to some distant Schnee I’d never heard of before and suspected was mostly fictional. Ruby and I were left alone.

It took me a minute to realize I was following Ruby, which was good, because I never would’ve found the spot otherwise. I didn’t know if she’d been back since the funeral, but if she had Weiss had never mentioned it. I used to have some kind of fear of cemeteries as a kid - probably something to do with the wrought-iron fences of the one we grew up near - but this one felt basically like a nice park. I knew Dad could’ve been buried next to Mom, with all the fanciness you get with a plot in Arlington, but I’m glad his will said ‘ _Vale_ ’. It was capital- _h_ Home.

Weiss had sent me a photo of my Dad’s grave, taken right after the internment, but it was low-rez and blurry, and I’d only just glanced at it. Seeing it in person was… different. It wasn’t big or pretentious, which I knew he would have hated, just a smooth granite headstone. It didn’t look like it’d seen much maintenance, and Ruby rushed forward, hurriedly brushing off some of the larger flecks of mud, looking just a little embarrassed as she did.

In the movies it would’ve been a moment of perfect tranquility, just the two of us alone in the world. Maybe some birds chirping quietly in the distance, like in the old Disney stuff. But that’s not how things ever work out. I could still hear the sound of traffic from the freeway. Off in the distance a groundskeeper was mowing the lawn. The air was wet and cold.

TAIYANG  
1971 - 2014  
LOVING HUSBAND  
DEARLY MISSED BY HIS DAUGHTERS YANG AND RUBY

The last line caught my eye. I knew Weiss had been the one to handle most of the funeral preparations, which was just one more favor I’d never be able to pay her back for. But nobody but Ruby would’ve chosen those words.

Ruby opened the bag of rose petals I’d bought for her. They were the real thing, too, not some cheap fabric replicas. She began sprinkling them here or there, never in large clumps, very gradually encircling the marker. I didn’t say anything. Dad had done the same for Mom, last time we all visited her spot in Arlington. Something about an old poem she’d liked. I knew the ritual had stuck with Ruby.

I clutched at the bouquet of sunflowers I’d brought with me, all of a sudden unwilling to part with them. They were just cheap flowers I’d been ludicrously overcharged for, but I felt my hand tightening around their stems. It finally hit me. When I’d heard the news, woken in the middle of the night halfway around the world, I’d gone through your usual stages of grief - denial, anger, depression… more anger… When I’d come back to Vale I’d blazed from one lead to another, never dwelling on what happened long enough to get to _acceptance_.

“Hey,” I managed to murmur. Ruby glanced over her shoulder at me, before realizing who I was talking too. She took a few steps to the side. “Sorry it took me so long to get here.” I sunk to my knees before the grave, one hand reaching out to brush the granite. It had rained last night, and the stone still felt a little damp.

I’d thought about this moment a few times, wondering what I might do. It usually ended up turning into some revenge-fantasy speech, me promising not to rest until his death was avenged, Ruby and/or Weiss looking on approvingly as I made a tearful vow.

I’d watched too many shitty action movies. Because for a few minutes, I didn’t care about how he died. I didn’t care about the Cardinals, or Torchinovich, or stolen guns or incompetent cops. Because at that moment, it didn’t matter.

One of my fingers traced where the _Y_ in his name had been engraved. “ _I miss you_.”

There really wasn’t anything else I could say. I cried a bit, in the soggy, muddy grass. Not sobs, not wails, just… tears, through closed eyes. I tried to think of the last time I saw him but I couldn’t. We’d said our goodbyes at too many airports and bus depots, they all kind of blurred together. Or was it at the ferry terminal, at that last visit to Patch Island together? Hopefully we hadn’t been fighting. Hopefully I’d told him I loved him.

I guess it really doesn’t matter. He was my Dad, and he loved me...

I felt a hand on my shoulder, resting on the thick leather of my jacket. I grabbed it with my free hand, just savoring the connection. At the moment, I didn’t even think about how it was our first contact in years. I just cried, until I couldn’t.

With a loud _sniffle_ I managed to regain most of my composure. I let go of Ruby’s hand a minute later. I focused on doing what I came here to do - put some flowers on his grave. Turns out the sunflowers didn’t feel like cooperating, though, and I grunted in annoyance as I struggled to prop their stupid flowery heads up. I eventually gave up, just dropping them on the grass.

When I turned around, I saw my mild annoyance had brought a silly grin to Ruby’s face. So I smiled back at her.

“I miss him too, Yang,” said Ruby. Of course she did. She’d almost completely shut me out of her life because she assumed I _didn’t_. “Thanks for dragging me out here. I…” she broke eye contact for a second, shuffling nervously, “...I didn’t want to come here alone. And Weiss is always so busy with work…”

“Hey.” I managed to recapture her attention. “Thanks for coming with me, sis.”

We hugged. If I’d had to psyche myself up for it, had time to think about all the ways Ruby could’ve reacted, I never would’ve done it.

“I’m glad I did.”


	3. RWBY & Torchwick / Partners in Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted at: <http://pvoberstein.tumblr.com/post/159088843098/drabble-y-moments-from-a-scene-for-a-fic-i-forgot>
> 
> _Once upon a time I really wanted Torchwick to be forced to work with Team RWBY. Now that that’s… clearly not happening… here’s ~2,000 words from an AU I would’ve liked to write…_

* * *

“Now before we proceed any farther, I am going to tell you now that we have brought in an external consultant for this assignment,” said Ozpin, speaking with the deft tact of someone who’d spent a lifetime managing egos. “By no means should you consider this a judgment against your capabilities. There are simply certain… technical… aspects of this assignment which none of you - none of us - have particular experience with.”

“We understand, sir,” replied Weiss evenly. Out of the four of them she was unquestionably the most diplomatic. Some part of the back of her mind did resent the intrusion, that was simply human nature. They’d barely ever required assistance from fellow Huntresses in the field, and even then it was mostly a matter of logistics and convenience. They’d never needed to bring in a complete outsider, certainly not for the planning stages of an assignment. She couldn’t help but be rankled, just a little.

Ozpin rested a hand on the large bronze doorknob, as if he was waiting for something. “I’m certain I have no need to remind you that your behavior is a reflection on all members of the organization, and that I would prefer to keep this conversation…civil.”

Three sets of eyes swiveled to Yang, who raised her hands in mock surrender, an expression of bewilderment on her face. She hadn’t done anything socially objectionable in at least a fortnight.

“Of course, why would we-” Ruby’s words trailed off as the door was swung open.

The first thing Blake noticed was the smell. Tobacco, thick and cloying, halfway to a proper haze. Not from cigarettes but a cigar, the scent heavy. The lit cigar was being held idly in the leather-gloved hand of its owner, the faintest twitch of his wrist sending a small pile of accumulated ash into the coffee cup-cum-ashtray beneath.

She blinked. The cigar. The gloves. The white coat. The gray scarf. The red hair. The bowler hat.

Goodwitch was between Blake and Torchwick before the Huntress had a chance to draw her weapon, though over her shoulder Blake could make out the impossibly smug smile of her tormentor. Blake wasn’t along in her rage, however, and Yang shot past her before Goodwitch could intervene, yanking Torchwick out of his seat by the lapels of his jacket.

“You!” she hissed, as the cigar was shaken from Roman’s mouth. “You almost got us all - almost got Ruby killed!”

“Ms. Xiao Long!” Goodwitch was calling her name but Yang didn’t care, giving Torchwick a good shove. With a chair behind him he couldn’t have hoped to recover his balance, and Roman crashed to the floor with a thud. Yang was already towering over him, itching to get started.

A hand on her shoulder stopped her. Yang spun around, ready to deck the intruder, but Ozpin’s unflinching gaze made her blink. He stared into her eyes, eyes that seethed with fury, and waited.

“Lovely ladies you’ve got at the place,” muttered Roman, as he picked himself up. Yang didn’t spare him a sideways glance. “I was so looking forward to working with professionals for a change.”

“Take a seat, Ms. Xiao Long,” instructed Goodwitch. Yang paused, the dregs of adrenaline flushing from her system, then nodded. Ozpin released his hand from her shoulder.

Torchwick righted his chair and sunk into it, plucking his still-smoldering cigar from the table. Yang, Ruby, Weiss and Blake all took seats on the other side of the table. Weiss, who was usually rivaled Blake when it came to keeping her demeanor cool, took the seat opposite Roman. Yang and Blake were seated to her left and right, while Ruby took the spot closest to the head of the table. That was where Ozpin seated himself, opening his binder with gentle care, doing everything in his power to exert an aura of calmness.

“As you have no doubt deduced by now, Mr. Torchwick will be our outside consultant for this operation,” began Ozpin, speaking with a gentle cadence. He raised a palm, pre-emptively silencing them. “You have my assurances that I am little more content with this arrangement than you are. Whatever your criticisms are, they have already been leveled at me tenfold by my staff.”

He didn’t look at Glynda, but he didn’t need to.

“But… why?” asked Ruby.

Roman leered in, like a wolf above a rabbit. “Isn’t it obvious, Red?”

“It would seem that our associate has something of a reputation as a robber,” said Goodwitch, doing little to mask the venom in her voice.

Roman shrugged. “I prefer the term criminal mastermind, but tomato, tomahto.”

“As unsavory as Mr. Torchwick’s skills are, they were ones we have need for,” continued Ozpin. “Very few individuals have broken into either the White House or the Kremlin, let alone both.”

“We managed to catch him,” rebutted Yang. She didn’t miss the way Roman bit down on his cigar. He was so much more sensitive to blows to his ego than his body.

“Give a chimp a typewriter and all the time in the world and it’ll eventually pound out Shakespeare,” Roman sniped back. “In case you didn’t follow the analogy, you are the chimp here, blondie.”

Weiss slipped a hand beneath the table, resting it on Yang’s thigh. The brawler took a deep breath, then did nothing.

“How is he even here?” Blake hissed, her stance suggesting she was still ready to lunge at him.

Roman actually smirked at that. “It’s actually a really funny story, kitty-cat. Go on, Oz, why don’t you have the honors?”

Ozpin let out a weary sighed and stared into his coffee cup, swirling the liquid unthinkingly. Goodwitch bit the bullet for him. “Mr. Torchwick is, we only belatedly discovered, officially in the United States as a… diplomatic representative…of the Republic of Moldova.”

“What?!” Blake, Yang and Weiss spoke as one voice.

“What Glynda is trying to say, ladies, is that I came here on a diplomatic passport, ergo diplomatic immunity. Worst Uncle Sam can do is PNG me and give me a free ticket to the Motherland.”

“How is that even remotely possible?” asked Blake, recovering her wits the fastest. “He’s wanted by INTERPOL. He’s on the FBI’s Most Wanted. He was caught after a nine-hour car chase that went through seven states and the District of Columbia.”

Ozpin rubbed his brow as if the conversation was giving him a migraine, which it was. “I will defer questions as to how exactly Mr. Torchwick’s - or rather Роман Торчинович’s - credentials were accepted to the Department of State. Needless to say that, due to a combination of bureaucratic ineptitude and a professional makeup kit, Mr. Torchwick is protected by the Vienna Convention on Consular Relations, making him legally immune to prosecution unless his diplomatic credentials should be revoked by… Moldova.”

The look of supreme nonchalance on Torchwick’s face made it clear he was not worried about the possibility.

“That explains why he’s not in jail,” said Weiss, after a moment’s pause. “It doesn’t explain why he’s here.”

“It’s one of life’s great mysteries isn’t it?” said Torchwick with a grin. “Why are we here? I mean, are we the product of some cosmic coincidence, or is-”

“He’s here because we have his girlfriend,” interrupted Goodwitch.

The smile evaporated off Torchwick’s face.

“She is not-”

This time Ozpin cut him off. “One of Mr. Torchwick’s associates - whom we’ve admittedly been unable to positively identify - was also detained.” Ozpin paused, weathering the murderous glower Roman was sending his way. “Since she is refusing to cooperate in any way with the authorities, the District Attorney - Attorneys, excuse me - are not inclined to be lenient with her.”

“So… Roman helps us, and we let his girlfriend go?” asked Ruby. Blake blinked. There was no missing the trace of pity in Ruby’s voice. ’Not pity, empathy’, Blake mentally amended. It was an important distinction.

“The legal mechanism is slightly more complicated, but, in short - yes.”

Roman was still visibly sulking, but the reaffirmation of his bargain seemed to lighten his mood, however fleetingly.

Roman slapped his hand against the table, hard, cups and pens suddenly bouncing in the air.

“Roman…”

“Do. You. Ever. Think!?” He half-cried, half-screamed, standing upright so suddenly his chair toppled over.

“Mr. Torchwick, you will-” Ozpin’s words were cut off by the thrusting of a finger.

“No!” Torchwick’s finger jabbed the air once more. “You said this will be my operation, Oz. My mission, my plan, my rules. You want me to rob Schnee Manor blind with these gifted amateurs? These kids!?” He re-focused his attention on the girls before him. Blake was eyeing him wearily. Ruby looked genuinely concerned. Weiss and Yang both just looked pissed.

“We didn’t exactly come begging for your help,” growled Yang, popping a knuckle in her clenched fist. “We’ve got everything we need. We can handle this on our own.” She was speaking more to Ozpin than Torchwick, but the Headmaster didn’t take the bait, and Roman was allowed to resume his harangue.

“Do you see what I mean, Oz? They think they’ll be fine,” he said, drawing out the last word. Roman paused, and for a moment his temper seemed to subside, that mockery would replace rage, but it flared up again with a vengeance. “And that is exactly the problem! Do you have any idea how much prep-work goes into something as complex as this? Were you planning to - lemme guess - swipe a guard’s keycard and stroll right in?”

Yang’s scowl suggested he’d hit close to the mark, and he pressed his advantage. “Christ, Oz, you hire a bunch of savants and child prodigies and they forget that some things are actually hard.” He returned to Yang. “We are talking, weeks, months, a year of planning and preparation, people. We need to get blueprints for the entire place - structural, plumbing, electrical, ventilation. And then we need to verify all of that with our own reconnaissance. We need to find out who works there: the security guards, the maids, the cooks, the landscapers, the caterers. Are they contractors or in-house? Armed? Who makes their uniforms? Where do they have access to? What kind of locks are used on the doors? What type of glass in the windows? Are the sprinklers on a timer or manually set?”

Weiss opened her mouth as if to speak, but Roman refused to cede the floor to her. “We need to make a plan. We need to pay for equipment, information, manpower, transportation, lodging, storage. We need cars, guns and tech. We need to pay people off. And we need to do it all without raising so much as curious glance from Schnee Security. All of that will take more time and effort than I bet any of you four have put into anything in your lives.”

“And even after you hit the vault, you think you’re scot-free? The SDC spends more on private security than half of NATO. They’re going to burn through millions going over every breadcrumb they can find, trying to put the puzzle back together. You leave one set of fingerprints, one traceable name, one recognizable image and you’re finished. Checkmate. Game over. If you want to actually pull this insane excuse of a job off, you’re going to need every detail down to the minute practically choreographic by the time we walk out that door.”


	4. Ozpin & Ironwood / Green wine bottles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://pvoberstein.tumblr.com/post/179472401778/61-with-ozpin-and-ironwood-maybe) and written for the prompt “Ozpin + Ironwood, ‘Green wine bottles’”.

* * *

Ironwood listened to the faint tinkering of glass clinking against glass, an acute noise made all the louder by the permeating silence. Ozpin’s private quarters - nestled deep inside the hidden recesses of Beacon Tower - were quaint and modest, befitting the man who inhabited them. There were the obligatory bookshelves overflowing with academic tomes. A table splashed with pens and papers. A few pieces of hard-carved furniture that had almost certainly come with the place. It was, apart from the two men, entirely empty.

“Ah, here we are,” declared Ozpin, a note of triumph lingering in his voice. “Château d'Été. I knew we hadn’t gotten to it.” The Headmaster strolled back from the walk-in cellar affixed to the kitchen, cradling a green wine bottle in his hands. He set the bottle down on a low wooden table, the thick glass container making a surprisingly loud _thud_ as it did. “Please, James, take a seat.”

Ozpin lowered himself into a plush leather armchair as he spoke, rubbing his leg absent-mindedly. Ironwood sympathized. A lifetime in the military had accustomed him somewhat to aching hours of standing still, but even his cybernetics couldn’t alleviate all discomfort. He sunk into the chair without conscious thought, the cushions squeaking in protest beneath his weight.

The wine glasses were already awaiting them, crystalline things clouded by use and time. Ozpin leaned forward, somewhat awkwardly, the uncorked bottle held tightly in his hand. Ironwood watched unthinkingly as Ozpin poured two glasses’ worth of rich red wine, concluding with a deft flick of the wrist wasting not a drop.

“I don’t recognize the vineyard,” Ironwood observed, leaning forward to both squint at the label and lift his own glass from the table.

“You probably wouldn’t,” Ozpin agreed, raising his wine to get a whiff of its nose. “It’s been out of operation for over twenty years.” Ironwood said nothing, allowing enough silence to accumulate that Ozpin felt compelled to continue. “One of Miss Rose’s ancestors, on her father’s side, had a small vineyard inland.”

Ironwood reclined in his chair, taking the obvious prompt. “ _Had_?”

“Yes,” Ozpin said, nodding sadly. “It was overrun by Grimm some time ago. If I recall it was a rather…” Ozpin paused, choosing his words carefully, “ _costly_ loss.” His nostrils flared as he sniffed. “Both in terms of human lives and unique vintages lost to the world. Miss Rose, as I understand it, had a small, private reserve tucked away somewhere.” He inclined his head towards the bottle. “Of which _that_ might be some of the last.”

The glass suddenly felt _very_ heavy in Ironwood’s hands.

“It was a gift,” Ozpin appended, as if needing to defend his possession of it. “I’m afraid I can’t quite remember the occasion now. You know how they all start to blur together.” Ozpin’s face fell a little. “She said it was a reminder her family, of why she became a Huntress.” Ozpin rubbed his eye. “What we lost, and what we can fight for.”

Ironwood offered a weak smile. “I would drink to that,” he stated, suppressing the emotions he was feeling.

Ozpin nodded in agreement, leaning forward to close the distance between them. “To what we lost,” Ozpin pronounced, his glass _clinking_ against James’.

“And to what we can fight for,” concluded Ironwood, drinking deep from the cup.

_For Summer._


End file.
